The Riddle Murders
by The Quoi
Summary: Tom Riddle looks back on the night he killed his remaining muggle family, and how his search for a true family was all in vain. R&R Oneshot.


_A\N: This is about the night that Tom Riddle killed his remaining family. Enjoy!_

When I look back on that day, it seems like such a long time ago. I was naive back then; stupid and sheltered. It was only a year ago, but it feels like ten. I've been through a lot since then, much more then I could've ever imagined.

It all happened. All in one bloody, goddamn year.

Back then it seemed so simple to me, the way of gaining power. I was already so talented, influential, and handsome to boot. With my easy way with words, taking over the world seemed like an easy accomplishable dream. But I was foolish. An absolute fool.

Here I am, a matured and tired man playing the piano in a smoky, crowded and dingy bar for folks who've fallen on hard times and come in for a drink to ease the reality away. A melody about forgotten happy times. Finally, after a year of traveling, I've come back to England for a while. To rest my bones.  
The only good thing I learned about life on the course of this journey was that it was pretty much pointless, only to know that you'll die eventually, and then either be forgotten or remembered for years and years to come. I also learned that there is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.

May sound pretty cryptic and evil to all you good folks out there, but let me assure you, you think about it for one goddamn second, just one, and in your hearts you know it to be true. I really wish it wasn't though. Somehow, I want it to be true. I want to know that there are categories for people, not just weakness and power. I want to be able to go to someone and tell him what he did was evil. I want to do that, really I do. But I'd be a damn hypocrite if I did. And if there's one thing I hate, are hypocrites.

This may seem strange to you, but over the course of this year, I've taken a liking to muggles. Strange, isn't it? I remember hating them, loathing them even. I remember the triumph and righteousness I felt when that Ravenclaw muggleborn died. But if there's another thing I've learned, is that I myself and no different. I'm half blood. My father left my mother.  
I can still feel myself nearly blinded by rage when I remember the visit to my father's house.

At first, I went there to speak to him. I never wanted to kill them. Never. You may find that difficult to understand, but I truly did not want them to die that day. I remember knocking at the door of the grand old manor. An elderly maid had opened the door, and she took one look at me and before I could speak she told me to come inside. She led me through grand halls to a large kitchen. The stooped old maid then looked straight at my face; looking deep into my eyes. I watched her own eyes soften as she looked, then she beckoned for me to follow her up to the third floor. I followed, quite intrigued by the maid's silent yet understanding behaviour.  


We then reached a door at the end of the hall. She told me softly to wait outside, then she knocked promptly and opened the door with much swiftness. I stayed out in the hall, but I got a glimpse of a woman sitting on a sofa inside. She was beautiful despite being in her forties. Long tresses of blond hair that curled slightly at the ends cascaded down her back and from what I could see she had pretty green eyes and rosy lips.

The old maid then came into the hall, and told me to go inside. I did so rather timidly, my hands clasped behind my back. The sun was shining through a large window. It was a beautiful sitting room, with comfy couches and chairs, along with deep oak floors and tables. Then I looked into the face of what I was certain to be my father.

He looked exactly like me. So much like me, in fact, that it sort of scared me a little. The same dark hair, same face, same long strait nose and slim figure. The only difference was our eyes. His were light and blue, while I must have inherited my mother's deep ebony. He looked at me with extremely surprised eyes, and I straitened my back a little, trying my best to give him a little smile.

"Who are you?", he asked softly still drinking in my face.  
I took a small breath of air before replying in the bravest voice I could. I remember my stomach feeling sort of queasy and my breath coming fast, causing me to stutter ever so slightly.  
"My name is Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle.", I waited with my breath hitched in my throat for his reaction. He paled slightly and looked at me with a questioning, almost fearful look. That's when the blond haired woman spoke up. She sounded kind enough.

"Here, come sit, dear. Over here", she beckoned to me, giving me an encouraging smile. I did as I was bid, and took a seat on the sofa where she sat. My father still said nothing, but continued to look at me as if I were a ghost.  
"My name is Cecilia. That", she said jerking her head to my father, "is Tom Riddle as well."  
I nodded. I really didn't know what to do.  
"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?", she inquired tentively.  
"Sixteen, madam."  
She seemed to think for a moment, and then she nodded to herself. She then looked at me. Her eyes were darkened slightly, but she still held her friendly demeanour.  
"So", she said inconsequentially, though I knew she was only faking it, "You're Tom's son."  
I hesitated, and then nodded. My father still stared.

Cecilia then asked me if I would like some tea, and then she suggested that the three of us talk awhile. But, as she suggested it, she was interrupted. Just like I dreaded. Just like I knew he would.  
"No, he shall not have tea!"  
He had sprung up now.  
"This young man is _not _my son!", he then waggled a finger at me, his eyes bulging rather maniacally, "_you _just want my house and riches! Well, that's very clever of you, isn't it? You're the right age, you look like me and you probably heard the stories about how I was so-called hoodwinked and thought what a genius plan that would be! Well, I'll tell you now, boy", he lowered his furious and insane gaze down to 

my face, "I don't buy it. Not for one minute. Even if you were my boy, I wouldn't want you anyway, you stupid little bastard!".

I almost didn't know what to say. But in a moment of desperate panic, I did say something.  
"I _am _your son! Can't you see? I really am your son.." , I really did start to cry. I honestly started to cry. The tears could be held back no longer. They fell fat, wet and warm on my face. I kept repeating over and over as I held my head in my hands, "I am your son...I am...".  
I felt suddenly the arms of someone wrap around me. It was Cecilia, and I couldn't help but cry quietly into her shoulder. She hugged me and hushed me and patted my back softly. I could almost feel the burning angry gaze she sent to her husband myself.

After I'd calmed down, I saw the my father was no longer in the room. Cecilia led me softly to one of the guest bedrooms and laid me down to sleep. I did, without second thoughts.  
But sometime in the middle of the night I awoke to a rustling noise in my room. Immediately my eyes flew open, and there I saw Tom Riddle senior standing before me in my bed, the moonlight giving perfect light to what he was doing. He was holding a knife aloft.  
Holding a knife above his son.  
Without thinking for the feeling of betrayal, I launched myself out of the bed and took off out the open window.

The next morning a silent maid found all four Riddles dead. She touched their skin softly, and told Tom Seniors body that the least he could have done was given the poor orphan boy the home he never had.  
The old woman saw that Cecilia was dead as well, but she was different. Her face held the picture of a forlorn, happy smile.  
When they examined the bodies later, they found that the blond haired beauty had cancer, and would have only lived for a week anyway.

That was my first four murders. When I was sixteen years old. I remember sleeping soundly that night, and picturing what it would've felt like to have had a mother like Cecilia to tuck me in, cozy and warm with a kiss on the forehead. How nice that would have been.

My fingers continued to dance along the keys of the old piano. The people in the bar talked, drank and smoked as usual, and a man with an auburn beard asked me to play a song about younger days.

_A/N: Damn that was depressing. But I feel quite proud of it though... Review please! :3_


End file.
